we do not write poetry
we write mirrors
which are held up
to curious faces
who read
looking for their
own reflections

The worst way to die
is to be forgotten
while you're still alive.

it’s raining and there are four people
huddled in the living room under
a tin roof, and the rain droplets
pound down like our hearts,
thudding loudly, this friday afternoon

there isn’t enough room for a fireplace
and i think it’s growing colder with each
breath i shudder to take, but i like to
imagine that if all the broken pieces of
our hearts could be fitted together into one
a spark might, in the dark, ignite
enough to keep us warm for just tonight

i do not sing the storm. i do not sing rage, wrath
the lightning bolt, the scream. Despair i do not sing
i do not sing struggle–revenge poisonous blast–
the hurricane, the quake that tears the city of peace

i do not sing no border. i do not sing no flag
i do not sing no warrior but she that fights all fear
Poverty & sickness-night, the blade, the club, the trap
blows, wounds, cries, lies, bursts & war-blood i do not sing

i do not sing despise for any thing or being
i do not praise no richness no governors, no kings
From all this flower-garden i pick one single rose:
creation is just dew upon the rose of love

i celebrate one flame. i only sing one blues:
the flame of endless loving with you & only you

was that a boy
running down the lane
in that awkward skedaddle
ah! but no
he comes closer
growing sure of step
increased gait
and exposing his personage
the masculinity
now dripping
of confidence
a trail of heat
down into bliss
and alas,
turning into fires
between my cheeks

I wonder if I really am kind hearted.
Most people think it’s true,
But maybe I’m just afraid of being mean-
Maybe I’m afraid of being you.

Words meant for you, I told someone else.

When I should be in your arms, I find myself lying some place else.